


The snow, tonight

by TedWrites



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gen, I don't even know I blacked out and wrote this, Phil and Techno are old friends, Techno and Wilbur act like brothers, Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28341642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TedWrites/pseuds/TedWrites
Summary: Sometimes, it hurt.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 6
Kudos: 264





	The snow, tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Hi yes hello I have no idea what this is but I thought about it so I speedran writing this.  
> Sbi found family dynamics will be the death of me.

_ The snow was cold.  _

Living up north has been, for the most part, nostalgic, if not a little frustrating. His home, with thick oak walls and warm fur on the floors, kept him warm and content, but every time he had to tend to his farm outside, he had to adorn heavy woolen coats and chunky boots that sunk in the snow with each heavy step. 

With each day, it got more bearable, but Technoblade still awaited the evening, a time to return inside his warm home and relax with a good book and a warm cup of tea in front of the fireplace. He enjoyed the silence, only momentarily disturbed by Phil’s rare but never unwelcomed visits and Wilbur’s rare stumblings as he took refuge from the heavy snow that would have otherwise melted his ghostly form into a puddle of goo. 

However, ever since he found Tommy, hidden in his basement like a rat, barely clothed and as skinny as a stick, his calming nights turned to fiery debates which sometimes, when the tension was just high enough, would end in playful wrestling matches that always proved him victor. 

With Tommy, he noticed that his only other two visitors would show up more often, to the point where he would get unnaturally anxious if he awoke without Wilbur’s ghostly humming from downstairs or the unmistakable smell of Phil’s cooking. 

It reminded him of a time before all this, of a time when Wilbur was still alive, of a time before he ever was a president of any country. A time when Tommy was loud and obnoxious and nothing of the jittery paranoid mess he is now. A time when Phil was still his best friend, older but never stuffy, without the heavy burden of having driven a sword through his son’s chest. 

_ Sometimes, it hurt.  _

Tonight, just like they had been for the past three nights, they were all huddled inside. Tommy was telling Phil a story from earlier that day, something about how he fought off three skeletons with _just a shovel, Phil can you believe that?_ (he forgot to mention the strong armor Technoblade had gifted him, or the bunch of golden apples he’d stolen from his cupboard). He was desperately trying to attain the oldest man’s praise, which he eventually got, with a bemused smile and a rough pat on his matted hair. He never did learn to brush it, and it had been left to grow unattended for months, leaving him with a wild, almost feral look. Although it suited him, Technoblade couldn’t stop insisting he let him brush it out and tie it back. 

Wilbur was looking at them, with a soft, longing look. Sometimes, his caramel eyes would turn dark, gray like charcoal, empty, and he looked as dead as he was, a pale ghost against the warm light of the fire. Those were the times when he’d forget; Phil was no one but a sword driven to his chest, and Technoblade was a terrifying smudge on his consciousness. Tommy didn’t exist. Technoblade hated those days.

But other days, he’d gain a sort of light in his eye, and he’d remember. He’d look at Technoblade with the same intensity he looked at him when they called each other brothers (even though they were never blood related), and he’d hug Tommy and beg him for forgiveness, a plea to atone for the anguish he’d caused him when he was still alive. It was the worst with Phil. He’d look at him and his heart would _break_ \- Phil was a soft man, his family was his priority. Killing Wilbur was the worst kind of punishment for the years of absence. And Wilbur regretted asking that of him, forever, like a broken record. And then he’d break down like a little kid and kneel in front of his father and he would desperately cling to the desire to be alive again. It was too much to stomach, and so Technoblade would discreetly leave the room and stare at the moon.

Tonight, Wilbur was lucid. He was so close to when he had been alive, with the same genius flicker in his eyes, with that bright smile that stretched across his cheeks in a way that looked painful, with that wild way of speaking, with wide gestures and rushed words that would sometimes stumble and crash into each other, forming a string of unintelligible mutters. And suddenly, Technoblade remembered. 

His mind fell back in time, to a core memory he had forced out of his consciousness, but which lay still, in wait. He was younger, barely a teen with a lanky figure he hadn’t yet grown into and hair that only just passed his chin, with arms that could barely hold up a wooden sword. Across him, with his feet firmly planted in the grass, a young Wilbur, with wild curls and dirty clothes, struggled to contain his giggles as his own wooden sword clattered out of his hands and onto the ground. He felt himself giggle too, and then they looked at each other and the wind was warm and his chest rattled and then Wilbur was gone, dead, murdered and his body went cold and numb and he was killing people, he _knew_ he was, but he couldn’t remember, he could feel their blood soak into his shirt-

They were all staring at him. Tommy had stopped talking.They were all watching him with worried eyes and shaking fingers. Something wet dripped from his cheek. 

“Techno-” Phil started.

“I’m going outside for a bit.” he said curtly, not daring to look any of them in the eye. His movement was rushed, messy but mechanical. He barely remembered to put on his boots at the door. 

_The snow was cold._

He walked to the back, where he slumped against the cold stone wall. The moon was silent. 

He stared at the sky for a while, trying to force down the memories, the emotions, the stupid stupid tears his eyes wouldn’t stop pouring. It was difficult. He had to bite into his arm, swallow down a sob, and then slap himself hard across the cheek. It stung, but the shock of it all forced his body into a sense of numbness. 

He barely noticed Phil approaching him. 

“What’s up?” his voice was patient, soft, like he was afraid Technoblade would break. 

“Nothing.” his eyes fixated on a star, just underneath the moon, barely visible. He knew it was there. _“Sometimes, I forget he’s dead.”_ He whispered, half hoping it would get lost in the wind, along with the implications hidden behind well crafted words. 

Phil leaned his head onto his shoulder. “I know, old friend. _I know._ ”

_ The snow was cold.  _


End file.
